There was a time when my excellence appeared effortless to everyone else— or at least, that’s what they have always thought. They referred to me as someone. The journalist who never missed a single deadline, the officer who repeatedly helps, the achiever they pointed to when they needed hard work paid off. They never saw the endless hours I stayed awake with immense anxiety curling inside my chest, the quiet panic of wondering if I’d ever be enough. They didn't see that each medal, each compliment, each nod of approval was brought with fear.

Back then exhaustion felt noble. Staying up late wasn’t self-destruction; it was merely discipline. Saying no to rest wasn’t neglect; it was purely survival. I realized early that praise comes after performance, that attention enters only after results. Achievement became a language, I spoke fluently—not because I loved it, but because I had no choice at all! Because if I stopped, I feared erasure.

No one conveys to you that excellence can be taught like obedience. You didn’t wake up as exceptional—you were trained into it. Trained to respond before being asked, to carry weight that should have broken you, to transform potential into output before you even know what you want. You weren’t asked what you were happy with. You were simply asked what you could handle. And I handled everything….

This shine is intoxicating. People rely on you. They trust you. They admire you. And I begin to believe that as long as I perform well, I matter.

So I carry on. I didn’t stop to ask who I am without the medals, the titles, the evidence. I just collect more of it, stacking accomplishments like proof in case a person ever questions my worth.

Until one day, I suddenly slow down.

Not dramatically. In no way that screams failure. I just… can’t do it the same way anymore. The system that once rewarded me now feels heavy. The routines fall apart. The discipline stumbles. And instantly, the roles I held so proudly began to disappear—not because I am incapable, but because I am no longer overperforming.

That’s when it hits: those roles only existed as long as I was useful.

Along comes the part no one tells me about: the world doesn’t adjust for my humanity. It notices my absence. It doesn’t ask what changed inside me; it only understands what I no longer produce. When I extend support, even friends shrug. “Why would I help? You don’t deserve it,” they say—because they thought my achievements required minimum effort. They don’t know it was apparently painful, insufferable torture. They don’t know that behind everything, I was quietly terrified of failing.

This isn’t despondency. It isn’t despair. It’s quiet shock. It’s realizing that being at my prime doesn’t make me loved. That leaving it behind doesn’t make me weak. That no one will remember the version of myself that burned so brightly unless I remind them.

Still, it’s very, very difficult! Because when achievement was my currency, stepping away feels like poverty. And occasionally it hits in the most silent moments—when I pass by old trophies again, medals dulled by time, certificates stacked like fossils of a former life. I stare at the name printed on them, feeling surprisingly distant, and cry silently, because I—and everyone else—took it from myself. I don’t accept the person who earned them anymore. Worse, I never knew where that version of I went—or if I even still have them in me at all. It makes me think maybe in another life?—but I can’t describe whether that means becoming the person I always wanted to be or becoming the person they always expected. The ambiguity is more painful than the loss itself.

Maybe the fade isn't a failure. Maybe it’s the first moment for me to stop performing and start existing. To realize that being not ordinary once doesn’t obligate me to bleed excellence forever. That letting it all happen—the rise, the shine, the fade—is the first genuine act I can do for myself.

And yes, it hurts a lot. It hurts because my currency is gone. Because everyone who leaned on my fire now looks past me. Because no one will call you remarkable until you earn it again, in a way that doesn’t scare you.

I don’t want to die—

but I wish I was never born at all, because for me, existing feels like a debt I no longer know how to pay.

But to be honest, you’ll never hear from them: the cost of keeping up appearances is heavy, and the chains were always invisible.

The best chains are invisible,

but they are still chains.

The Frontman